LIBRARY OF.CONGRESS. 

^rj^^ 

Cliap.\.-^-. Copyright No, 

Shelfii_l5_. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE ACROBATIC MUSE 



/ 



RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK 
THE 

ACROBATIC MUSE 




CHICAGO ^^'"^ 

WAY AND WILLIAMS \5^^ 

1897 



K. 






COPYRIGHT 

By way and WILLIAMS 

MDCCCXCVI 



TO 

CAMERON MUNKITTRICK 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Songs of Summer ... - - g 

En Voyage - 25 

To Miguel De Cervantes Saavadra - - 27 

My Garden 28 

Winter Dusk ...--- 31 

The Vain Mountain - . . - 32 

A Fireside Dream 34 

Unsatisfied Yearning ... - 36 

Under the Influence of Coffee - - - 37 

A Legend ------ 39 

To the Christmas Goose - - - - 41 

A Critic's Complaint - - - - 46 

What's in a Name? 47 

October -..---- 49 
5 



6 CONTENTS. 



PAGE 



Ballade of the Rural Prospectus - - 51 

To the Editor of Puck - - - - 53 

My Pleasant Settle ----- 56 

The M.D.'s Songful Soliloquy - - 59 

A Flower Fancy 62 

"To Puck" ------ 63 

To the Poet of the Garden - - - 65 

Put to Sleep 67 

At Uewy Morn 68 

At Last 71 

At the Shrine - 73 

Fame 74 

A Critic on Nature 75 

Ballade of the Declining Year - - ^^ 

Dawn 79 

Reciprocity ------ 80 

A Clergyman on June - - - - 84 

The Jolly Plumber - - . 86 



CONTENTS. 7 

PAGE 

To a Certain Kind of Poet - - - 91 

An Old Beau 94 

The Beetle 96 

Ballade of the Tea Cigarette - - 98 

My Chickens ------ 100 

The Poets of Printing House Square - 103 

The Wunk 107 

An Epitaph ------ 109 

Mastery - - no 

The Joys of Rural Life - - - - m 

In Defence of the Advertising Muse - - 114 

Strawberries 116 

A Dirge 118 

At 8:30 P.M.- ----- 120 

But - - 122 

Through Garden and Meadow - - 124 

A Summer Memory 126 

The Academic Kitchen . - - - 130 



8 CONTENTS. 



PAGS 



Sea Dreams in the City - - - - 135 

A Rosary of Antique Gems - - - 138 

Ballade of Triumphant Time - - - 143 

IMITATIONS. 

Morning 147 

Hollyhocks 149 

The Fruit Peddler - - - - - 151 

To a Virtuous Vender .... 15^ 

To At Campobello • - - 158 

A Dog Day Jingle 159 

A Dream 163 

The Sun 165 

The Sleepy Day 166 

My Ship .--...- 167 



SONGS OF SUMMER. 

I. 

Oh, the Summer! Oh, the Summer! It 

is here, a golden boon, 
And the lily is besilvered by the tresses 

of the moon. 
Oh! the rosebud's fondly dreaming on 

the dainty garden tree. 
And the butterfly is drifting o'er the 

meadow with the bee. 
Oh! the fleecy cloudship's anchored in 

the peaceful sapphire sky, 
And the zephyr through the kitchen 
steals across the cherry pie. 
And the beer we gayly guzzle 

As along the way we jog, 
For the bloom is on the muzzle 
And the muzzle's on the dog. 
9 



lO SONGS OF SUMMER. 

Oh, the Summer! Oh, the Summer! It 

has come on pinions free, 
And the populace is flying to the moun- 
tain and the sea. 
Now the bathing suit is flapping like a 

banner overhead. 
Where the lemonade of commerce is a 

symphony in red. 
Oh! it's now upon the bluefish and the 

lobster that we dine, 
While Myrtilla is cavorting like a siren in 

the brine. 

All the earth is perfume laden — 

All the earth's a flower bed, 
For the bloom is on the maiden 
And the maiden's on the wed. 

Oh, the Summer! Oh, the Summer! Now 

the mermaid is employed 
Doing up her hair in papers in her cave 

of celluloid. 
Now the Coney Island Sausage glows 

within the carven bun 
And the baseball player's sliding on his 

nose to make a run. 



SONGS OF SUMMER. n 

Nature in her flowered tunic is serenely- 
beautiful, 
While the horsefly knocks the glamour 
off the visions of the bull. 
And the locust like a rattail 

File is rasping loud and flat, 

For the bloom is on the cattail 

And the cattail's on the cat. 

Oh, the Summer! Oh, the Summer! 'tis 

a season short and sweet; 
'Tis a span of rippling sunshine from its 

head unto its feet. 
'Tis a time for golf and tennis, when the 

orchards richly glow. 
And the blazer brightly blazes on Susan- 
na, don't you know? 
When upon the fiz's bosom drifts a berry 

red and ripe. 
And we hear the birds with rapture in 
the woodland madly pipe. 
Then we know life's not a mock tale 
As we drift, neath Fortune's star, 
When the bloom is on the cocktail 
And the cocktail's on the bar. 



12 SONGS OF SUMMER. 



II. 

Oh, the hot wave is a melter, 

And it makes us swoon and swelter 

While we hustle helter-skelter 

Through the city's rat-tat-tat! 
And the cambric handkerchieflet 
Won't assuage our greasy grieflet, 
Though assisted by the leaflet 

Of the cabbage in the hat. 

Oh, the hot wave now is booming, 
And the atmosphere's simooming, 
While old Sirius is looming, 

And the ice man is on top. 
While the perspiration's dropping 
From the brows we're madly mopping- 
On the ear the corn is popping 

With a populistic pop. 

Oh, the poodle's melancholic, 
And he cannot frisk and frolic, 
For upon the parabolic 

Now the lasso wildly tears. 



SONGS OF SUMMER. 13 

And the vendor's shirt front sunders 
While he eloquently thunders 
Of the marvels and the wonders 
Of his meretricious wares. 

Now the vitreous mosquito, 
With the bill no man can veto — 
Yea, from Dan to Sausalito, 

On our nasal's rapture pent — 
Oh, this diabolic hummer, 
Of a rumpty-tumpty tummer. 
Simply means this is the summer 

Of our disconcircustent. 

Oh, we're yearning for the beaches. 
Where the seagull wildly screeches, 
And no bloated curbstone peaches 

Full of typhoid wake our wrath. 
Where the beaker, ripe and rosy. 
Gilds each fancy like a posy. 
And we make the waiter "mosey" 

For a blooming aftermath. 

Oh, it's while we thus are dreaming 
Of the siren on us beaming, 



H SONGS OF SUMMER. 

And her golden ringlets gleaming 

On the billow rolling high 
That beneath the "incandescent,' 
We perform the grind incessant 
For the shekels evanescent, 
To assure our daily pie. 



SONGS OF SUMMER. 15 



III. 

When the pie is on the fly, 
And the fly is on the pie, 
Oh, the fairy 
Of the dairy 
Doth the custard shyly shy 
Down the counter with a movement 
That is quite a great improvement 
On the action of the waiter-man who 

makes your spirits droop 
When he boomerangs the checklet till it 
circles in your soup. 

Oh, she blossoms in a blush 

That's as lovely as the dawn 
When she smiles upon the mush 

And the crullers and suppawn. 
When she grabs the shining spoon 

And instanter, like a shot, 
Stirs the unsuspecting prune 

And the guileless apricot. 



l6 SONGS OF SUMMER. 

Oh, she is a living dream 
When she serves the red ice cream, 
While the band discourses Wagner for 

the highly cultured ear 
And its owner makes the doughnut and 

the baked bean disappear; 
Oh, she hums a merry ditty while she 

flips the blazing tart 
Like a quoit across the counter with a 
light and dainty art. 
But she knows that indigestion 
Is of time a simple question 
With the man who eats those dishes by 
machinery swiftly made; 
But his soul doth she environ 
With the songlet of the siren 
And he daily doth the dairy in his reck- 
lessness invade. 

Oh, beware the sandwich siren 
Who's a huckleberry pie-ren. 

Avoid the mush 

That with her blush 



SONGS OF SUMMER. 17 

Is gaily gilded o'er, 
Or you'll straightway 
Through life's gateway 
Fly unto the Golden Hence, 
Where upon your happy harplet you will 

suddenly commence 
To discourse those merry measures so 

mellifluently sweet 
That accompanied the cruller which you 
gulped on Nassau street — 
While the fairy 
Of the dairy 

In a manner light and airy 
Smiled a smile that fairly thrilled you 
from your hatband to your feet. 



1 8 SONGS OF SUMMER. 



IV. 



Oh, the swish and the swash of the blue 
summer sea 

Is the music of music that ripples 
through me. 
Oh, I list to its saline soblet 

As the blue gulls about me skim, 
And I'm certain my mental goblet 
Is full to the fragile brim. 

As I flounder about on the crest of the 
wave 

While it rolls o'er the mermaiden's mus- 
ical cave. 

Oh, the wave with the symphony swirl 

on it, 
And the glamor of glimmering pearl 

on it, 

And the tresses of red 

All attached to the head 
Of the lithe Summer, blithe Summer girl 

on it! 



SONGS OF SUMMER. 19 

Oh, the cloudland I note 

As I tumble and toss 
On the billow afloat 

Like the swift albatross; 
On a fairyland shore 

With red lilies abeam, 
Amid houris galore 

Do I linger and dream. 

Of the bough with the blossom of pink 

on it, 
Of the twig with the gay bobolink on it, 

And a fair witching face. 

With its dimples of grace 
And the bar with the ripe rosy drink on 

it. 

Oh, these are the visions that people my 
brain 
As I turn somersaults in the riotous sea, 
As I caper about on the wind-rippled 
main, 
While I duck 'neath the shaft of the 
swift stingaree. 



20 SONGS OF SUMMER. 

Oh, I think of the city's sizzle 

And the roast, and the fry, and the 

frizzle, 
With not a cool raindrop to drizzle; 
Where the gin fiz is now a gin fizzle. 

Aloft upon the breaker 

I lose all sense of care 
While I'm thumping, 
And a-bumping 

Most serenely here and there. 
Out of happy dreams a waker 

From the wave I now emerge, 
And I listen to the rumpty 
Tumpty tumpty 
Of the surge. 
And I make a line instanter 
For the arabesque decanter. 
Yes, I fly on a straight Indian arrow line, 
On a bee line, and not on a sparrow line ; 
And I gather the drink 
From the plump, peachy pink 
Little hand of my own little Caroline. 



SONGS OF SUMMER. 21 

And it's then that I fly, like a gull, fancy 

free, 
To the table where glimmers the gem of 

the sea. 
Oh, it's there, with a heart full of joy, I 

salaam 
To the fish-ball's twin sister, the fragrant 

fried clam. 



22 SONGS OF SUMMER. 



V. 

Now the billow's caracoling 

'Neath the cloudless Summer sky, 
And upon the sand I'm rolling 
That I may not roast or fry, 
And I note a gentle pathos on the throb- 
bing, bobbing sea, 
Where the devilled crab and fishball are 

disporting fancy free. 
And the white sail in the distance in the 

sunshine brightly beams, 
And the fairyland about me is a fairy- 
land of dreams; 
Where the gull on happy winglet 

At the ocean makes a dip, 
While his dingaling a linglet 

Madly ripples with a rip. 
And he nabs the napping fishlet down 
his inner gull, to slip. 



Like the clumsy armadillo 
I am dreaming on apace, 



SONGS OF SUMMER. 23 

With my knuckles for a pillow 
At my brainlet's second base. 
Oh, my heels I'm gaily kicking in the air 

in childish glee, 
For these happy golden moments will 

return no more to me. 
They are fleeting, they are flitting to a 

realm of yester-years. 
Where the ghosts of youth are winging 
on a sea of vanished beers; 
And I'm in Joy's airy limbo. 

Where I know a gracious host. 
While the soft crab glows akimbo 

On the bosom of the toast, 
Which is just the sort of background 
that it beautifies the most. 

Oh, the shale is on the shingle. 

And the shingle's on the shale, 
And the bathers troop and mingle 
Where the porpoise wags his tail. 
And I'm in a seventh heaven, on the sand 
so blazing hot, 



24 SONGS OF SUMMER. 

For the clam is in the chowder, and the 

chowder's in the pot; 
And upon the sea of pleasure Fancy 

spreads her glowing sail, 
While the sea puss with a sea mew's on 
the lobster's scarlet trail, 
And my fingers like a rat trap 

Do I close in fiendish glee 
On the diabolic satrap 

Of a bridled stingaree, 
Which is all I know of Summer by the 
margin of the sea. 



EN VOYAGE. 

In the shadows coldly flitting, 

Solemn as the tomb, 
Charon in his boat was sitting. 

Wrapt in ashen gloom. 

Through the gray shades softly groping 
Round the shore he steered; 

For a pilgrim fondly hoping, 
In the mist he peered. 

Soon a youth both tall and stately 

Did the oarsman greet; 
Said he was at Harvard lately, 

As he took a seat. 

Charon saw him sigh and shiver 

On those murky shores, 
While he pushed out in the river 

And resumed his oars. 

25 



26 EN VOYAGE. 

In the silence all unbroken, 

Desolate, supreme, 
Not a syllable was spoken — 

All was like a dream. 

Through the leagues of gray unending, 

Still the pilgrim lone 
At the oars watched Charon bending 

For the great unknown. 

Charon swaying backward, forward. 

Onward urged his bark, 
And was moving surely shoreward 

O'er the current dark. 

Then the pilgrim wan and weary. 

Broke the mystic spell. 
When his accents faint and dreary, 

On the waters fell. 

And to day 't is not known whether 

Charon made reply. 
When the student said: "You feather 

Just a bit too high!" 



TO MIGUEL DE CERVANTES 
SAAVADRA. 

A bluebird lives in yonder tree, 

Likewise a little chickadee, 

In two woodpecker's nests — rent free! 

There, where the weeping willow weeps, 
A dainty housewren sweetly cheeps — 
From an old oriole's nest she peeps. 
I see the English sparrow tilt 
Upon the limb with sun begilt — 
His nest an ancient swallow built. 

So it was one of your old jests. 
Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests 
*'There are no birds in last year's nests?" 

NOTE. 

RoxBURY, N. Y., August 10, 1883. 
Dear Sir: Vows of the 2d has but just reached 
me. The bluebird often builds in the cavity of an 
old woodpecker' s nest, so does the chickadee, so does 
the nuthatch. The houseivren will sometimes ft 
Mp an old oriole' s nest. The English sparrow will 
appropriate an old swallow's nest. I can think of 
no others just now. Truly yours, 
Mr. R. K. Munkittrick. John Burroughs. 

27 



MY GARDEN. 

I have twelve pretty garden beds 

Where green things greenly blow; 
Where, soldierlike, the cabbage heads 

Are ranged in many a row; 
Where radishes and sugar beets, 

By pearly showers nurst. 
With peas and other garden sweets 

Upon my vision burst. 

I often pause and fondly muse 
Upon these sprouts galore ; 

But all the garden truck we use 
I purchase at the store. 

It's pleasant, in my slippered feet, 
When smiles the rosy morn, 

To linger at the garden seat 
And watch the bannered corn; 
28 



MY GARDEN. 29 

To note within the rustling tree 

The merry piping wrens, 
And from my egg-plants, blowing free, 

To chase my neighbor's hens. 

Then to the grocer, smiling gay, 

I say in tones polite: 
"Oh bring two cans of peas, I pray. 

And three of corn to-night!' 

When through the air as sweet as wine 

The gold bees swiftly flash, 
I love to linger on my spine 

And watch the succotash; 
I never handle, e'en in play. 

The spade, or rake, or fork; 
I never work when I can pay 

The gentleman from Cork. 

It is a garden for the eye 

That every passer scans. 
My fruitful garden I must buy 

All ready-made in cans. 



30 MY GARDEN. 

My garden is a spot serene 

Where blows the crimson rose, 
And apples drop from branches green 

To dislocate my nose. 
I love to watch the butterfly 

Tilt on the flower cup, 
But when my garden bright I spy 

On paper figured up — 

And how I buy store beets and peas 
I have to shout '"T would not 

Cost half as much upon the seas 
To sail a pleasure yacht!" 



WINTER DUSK. 

The prospect is bare and white, 
And the air is crisp and chill; 

While the ebon wings of night 
Are spread on the distant hill. 

The roar of the stormy sea 

Seem the dirges shrill and sharp 

That winter plays on the tree — 
His wild Aeolian harp. 

In the pool that darkly creeps 
In ripples before the gale, 

A star like a lily sleeps, 
And wiggles its silver tail. 



31 



THE VAIN MOUNTAIN. 

There once was a small, respectable 
mount, 

That considered itself a wonder; 
The sea it imagined of no account. 

And it kindly smiled at the thunder. 

It would laugh to itself, and softly say: 

"Those clouds, in the distance looming, 
Remind me of smoke-flowers light and 
gay 
'Round the pipe of some Dutchman 
blooming. 

*'The stars are a handful of third-rate 
gems. 
And the blue sky is only a flagon; 
The forest's a tangle of whining stems. 
And the moon's the wheel of a wagon. 
32 



THE VAIN MOUNTAIN. 33 

*'The moon and the sun a chance afford 

For the game of philopena; 
And the grandest cyclone that ever 
roared 

Is a petulant concertina. 

"But I — I am sure, I am wildly grand, 
I'm majestic, and I'm stately; 

My sublimity well I understand. 
And enjoy my greatness greatly. " 

And then did a low, self-satisfied laugh 
From the mountain begin to sally — 

When an earthquake suddenly split it in 
half 
And turned it into a valley 



A FIRESIDE DREAM. 

The sky is growing bleak and gray; 

The dead leaves tremble on the bough; 
The geese are flying south away — 

The quail is in the market now. 
Flown are the humming bird and bee; 
A snowflake wanders in the lea. 

So I will draw an easy chair, 

And place my heels upon the dogs, 

And watch the blossoms red and rare 
That wreath the moaning droning logs. 

And Musta, while they hiss and crack, 

Will brew the steaming apple-jack. 

That summer apple juice will bring 
A dream of Summer to my heart, 

And rapturously will I sing, 

Untrammeled by the laws of art, 

Of blue-eyed, golden-haired Elaine 

I met upon the coast of Maine. 
34 



A FIRESIDE DREAM. 35 

My '87 Summer girl, 

Elaine, demure, serene, petite 
I see the wavelets curl and swirl. 

To kiss her dainty sandaled feet, 
While o'er us on the strand, care free 
The white moon silvers all the sea. 

My name I hear her softly call. 

Which fills my soul with sad, sweet pain, 

Because I knoM the secret all : 

John Henry's down with croup again, 

And I must fly at once, alack. 

To drop the soothing ipecac. 



UNSATISFIED YEARNING. 

Down in the silent hallway 

Scampers the dog about, 
And whines, and barks, and scratches, 

In order to get out. 

Once in the glittering starlight, 
He straightway doth begin 

To set up a doleful howling 
In order to get in. 



36 



UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF 
COFFEE. 

A poet's day dream. 

He sees through odorous sprays a land- 
scape soft, 

Songful with birds; 
Meadows where blossoms subtlest in- 
cense waft 

Round lazy herds, 

Where all is brighter than the brightest 
dream 

That pleasure knows. 
Where the calm bosom of the crystal 
stream 

Pictures the rose. 

He sees the temple of the gorgeous East 

In glory rise ; 
And in the fountain sees Zuleika feast 

Her dusky eyes. 
37 



38 UNDER INFLUENCE OF COFFEE. 

He stt?< portieres of dazzling silken stuff 

Cool breezes fret; 
He sees the sleepy caliph idly puff 

His cigarette. 

Amid the spicy odors strangely sweet 

By him are seen 
The twinkle of the supple dancer's feet 

And tambourine. 

These pictures through the poet's vision 
flit, 

The East he sees, — 
Although his coffee's brewed of common 
split 

Canadian peas. 



A LEGEND. 

Once winter, old and bent and white, 
Sat on a drift of snow to rest. 

When Spring appeared with footsteps 
light, 
And crimson roses on her breast. 

Her hair with meek anemones 

Was sprinkled till the air was sweet; 

She moved as softly as the breeze. 
With twinkling sandals on her feet. 

She scattered flowers, blue and white, 
And red and purple, as she went — 

Old Winter watched her with delight 
Enravished with the spicy scent. 

He saw the grass beneath her feet 

Turn to a light green flecked with gold, 

Where crocus cups, all dewy sweet. 
Would softly in her smile unfold. 
39 



40 A LEGEND. 

Old Winter shook aside the snow, 
And followed where the goddess led; 

He felt the airy zephyr blow 

Each foot-print to a blossom red. 

He followed to her rosy lair, 

And fanned her with love's pleasant 
wing; 
And wedded were the happy pair — 

Whining Winter and sighing Spring. 

Since love these two as one did mold, 
These seasons but one season form; 

The Winter's always warm and cold. 
The Spring is always cold and warm. 

We know in Feb. a mild May day; 

In March what odorous breezes glow 
A tempest comes along in May, 

And April has a fall of snow 

Oh, that divorce may shortly flap 

About this match its gruesome wing! — 

We want no Spring in Winter's lap, 
Nor Winter in the lap of Spring. 



TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 

Oh, snowy goose, with burnished golden 
bill. 
You are the dear old Santa Claus for 
me, 
You glad my bosom with a childish thrill, 

Until I caper rampant in my glee. 
My mental stocking to the brim you fill 

With lush ineffable felicity, 
Until your smile gilds with effulgence 

rare. 
The fftayground of my lost lamented hair. 

I've seen you at the incense-breathing 
morn, 
Lining your inner bird with t\7inkling 
grass. 
Hymning the symphony of pleasure 
born — 
I've seen ^^ou into perfect goosehood 
pass 

41 



42 TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 

And now when you the Christmas board 
adorn, 
I close my eyes and fondly sigh, ''alas!* 
And drift unto an houri haunted sphere, 
E'en as you drifted o'er the lilied mere. 

You bear me back to childhood's rosy 
shore. 
And at the hearth I take the stocking 
down, 
And empty on the bed its sweets galore — 
The brindled tiger with the painted 
frown, 
The shaggy lion and a dozen more 
Wild beasts and birds of colors yellow, 
brown, 
Red, green and gray, such as the cock- 
atoo, 
The quagga, wombat, ape, and kangaroo. 

Still as a child I love your drumstick 
plump, 
I love your neck, your breast, your 
folded wing. 



TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 43 

Your luscious dressing makes me skip 
and jump, 
Turn moral somersaults and dance and 
sing, 

As lively as a milkman at the pump. 
When in the East day's rose is blos- 
soming. 

To take you all in all, most noble goose, 

You are the grandest minstrel e'er let 
loose. 

To me you are a swan antique and rare, 
That haunts the bright wild region of 
romance, 
Oh, classic fowl, you're quite beyond 
compare, 
Juicy and brown upon the plate's ex- 
panse. 
You're even whiter then and far more fair 
Than when with neck projecting like 
a lance 
You flapped your wings and chased the 

freckled boy. 
Who eats you now with apple sauce and 
joy. 



44 TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 

You're e'en more lovely than the Christ- 
mas tree, 
You're sweeter than its very sweetest 
toy, 
You are a pungent roasted melody, 

That fills my soul with rare poetic joy, 

Until I flutter round you as the bee 

Flutters around the tulip chaste and 

coy. 

And glide into a vision bright and sweet, 

That from my ringlets ripples to my feet. 

A merry Christmas you have made for me, 
And cast me 'neath a most romantic 
spell, 
My dreams are rose-embroidered like 
the sea, 
When morn's faint kiss glows on the 
dimpled swell. 
And now I'll brew a hot Scotch steaming 
free. 
To make me merry as a Christmas bell, 
And while my skull is full of fancies ripe, 
I'll blow quaint smoke wreaths from my 
corn-cob pipe. 



TO THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE. 45 

Within tliat smokescape, noble goose, 
I'll see 
Your ghostly gooseship float with 
wings outspread, 
A sylph of grace and rippling drapery, 
In turquoise beauty lightly overhead. 
And when the pipe is out I'll think, ah 
me. 
How very fast the merry Christmas 
sped, 
Because it sped with all its pretty things, 
Oh, goose, upon your toothsome roasted 
wings. 



A CRITIC'S COMPLAINT. 

The critic sat beneath a breezy tree 
By Spring's fair fingers to a snow-drift 

wrought ; 
Upon the bough a bluebird, rapture 
fraught, 
Poured forth a strain of joyful minstrelsy. 
The critic drew his pencil out care free 
All from sheer force of habit, when he 

caught 
The ripple of the notes, his only 
thought 
Being of the song's artistic quality. 
"It is inconsequential on the whole," 
He wrote, "and alien quite to music's 

laws; 
*T is strident and metallic, and, there- 
fore, 
'T is cold and flat, and all devoid of soul 
And not original or new, because 
I' ve heard the thing a thousand times 
before." 

46 



WHAT'S IN A NAME ? 

In letters large upon the frame, 

That visitors might see, 
The painter placed his humble name: 

O' Caliaghaft Ale Gee. 

And from Beersheba unto Dan, 

The critics with a nod 
Exclaimed: "This painting Irishman 

Adores his native sod. 

*'His stout heart's patriotic flame 
There's naught on earth can quell; 

He takes no wild romantic name 
To make his pictures sell." 

Then poets praised in sonnets neat 
His stroke so bold and free; 

No parlor wall was thought complete 
That hadn't aMcGee! 

All patriots before McGee 
Threw lavishly their gold; 
47 



4S WHAT'S IN A NAME? 

His works in the Academy 
Were very quickly sold. 

His "Digging Clams at Barnegat," 
His "When the Morning Smiled, 

His "Seven Miles from Ararat," 
His "Portrait of a Child." 

Were purchased in a single day 

And lauded as divine. — 

* * * * 

That night as in his atelier 

The painter sipped his wine, 

And looked upon his gilded frames, 
He grinned from ear to ear: — 

"They little think my real name's 
V. Stuyvesant De Vere!" 



OCTOBER. 

This is old gold-stoled October, 

In its glowing flowing gown; 
And its spirit, blithe and sober. 
All the woodland's gay disrober. 
Turns the grasses gray and brown. 
Not a vestige 
Of the prestige 
Now remains of Summer's crown. 

Through the wood the brooklet babbles 

In melodious unrest. 
While the small boy coyly dabbles 
In his neighbor's fruit, or scrabbles 
Barefoot, free of hat and vest, 
Like Terpsichore, 
Up the hickory 
For the ashen hornet's nest. 

Through the valley, gloom-invaded, 
Plaintively the cattails sigh, 
49 



50 OCTOBER. 

While the shaded, jaded, faded 
Ribbon grasses, zephyr-braided, 
Are paraded far and nigh 
And the vesper 
Hour sees Hesper 
Like a scarf pin deck the sky. 

On the branch the leaf is curling 

Like the caudal of a pug. 
And a lilac mist's unfurling. 
All the touchful scene impearling, 
While the humble tumblebug 
Gaily tumbles 
Bumps and stumbles 
Round his glossy, mossy, rug. 

As the days are waxing duller, 

Ceres wanders by the weir. 
Ruddy as a homespun cruller — 
In the drifting, shifting color 
Sail her ringlets, gold and sere, 
While beguiling 
She is smiling — 
On the corn — from ear to ear. 



BALLADE OF THE RURAL 
PROSPECTUS. 

Next year the Keene Observer will 
Appear in dress entirely new. 

It will be bold and fearless still. 
The tariff it will oft review. 
A pretty chromo, "Howdy do?" 

i8 X lo, eclipsed by none, 

'Twill give to dangle from a screw. 

All kinds of printing neatly done. 

The local maw 'twill weekly fill 

With local gossip always true. 
As, for example, "Simon Hill 

His henhouse lately painted blue. 

Mark Quigley's horse has cast a shoe. 
Take note, at Music Hall next Mon- 

Day night the Taming of the Shrew.' ^ 
All kinds of printing neatly done. 
51 



52 BALLADE. 

No cabbages can pay a bill ; 

For gold its course it will pursue! 
The wisdom of its old goose-quill 

Will be its rival's bugaboo. 

Besides short stories, and a few 
Sweet poems, and the prankful pun 

There'll be ''Home Notes" by Aunty 
Lou. 
All kinds of printing neatly done. 

ENVOI. 

On patrons I would this imbue: 

It is n't printed just for fun. 
Terms cash ! — to boil the Irish stew. 

All kinds of printing neatly done. 



TO THE EDITOR OF PUCK. 

With some June Dandelions. 

The poets who write on plants and flowers 
should learn something of botany and garden- 
ing. Here, for instance, is Mr. Clinton Scol- 
lard, and a poet beyond the average he is, 
writing in Harper' s Young People: 

" When June has come, and all around 
The dandelions dot the ground." 

All in tranquil ignorance that in this latitude 
the dandelions appear in March sometimes, in 
April always; and are gone before May is over, 
so that if they dot the ground in June, the dots 
must be very few and far apart. — A^. Y. Sun^ 
June 6, 1891. 

I send some dandelions gay 

I plucked this morn 
The while the dew all pearly lay 

On bud and thorn. 
While all the robins sang in tune 
In the rose banks of June. 
53 



54 TO THE EDITOR OF PUCK. 

A many more along the lawn 

On waving stems 
Shone in the dewy kiss of dawn 

Like Indian gems. 
I found them blowing by the score 
On June's bright sunny shore. 

I never saw them sweeter look 

Than on this day 
In every shadow-haunted nook; 

April or May 
No finer specimens could show 
Than these in June a-blow. 

I see them now the mead invade 

Like shining coins, 
Just where some trembling apple-shade 

Another joins, 
Waving in delicate unrest 
Upon June's fragrant breast. 

A fancy of the marriage moon 

Unto them clings. 
With their suggestive golden boon 

Of wedding rings. 



TO THE EDITOR OF PUCK. 55 

Warm breezes kiss these flowers rare 
Entangled in June's hair. 

Oh, let them on your table fade 

Softly away. 
When mellow autumn paints the glade 

In colors gay, 
May they remind you sweetly of 
Bright June, the month of love. 

Summit, N. J., June 6, 1891. 



MY PLEASANT SETTLE. 

That is my cushioned settle over there 
Which wears my clothes threadbare. 
No king upon his throne, 
In this or that or any other zone, 
Can call such perfect happiness his own 
As that which fills my soul 
When on it at full length I find true rap- 
ture's goal. 

I love my hammock rocked between two 
trees ; 

I love on lazy seas 

To drift in idlesse sweet, 

But sweeter far to lie upon this seat, 

And rest 'neath curtained panes my slip- 
pered feet. 

And pile my old bald crown 

On raw silk 'broidered bags of balsam, 
sage and brown. 
56 



MY PLEASANT SETTLE. 57 

As the gull floats upon the Summer air 

Without a thought of care, 

So on this couch I float 

Through cloudless realms, as in a fairy- 
boat 

That drifts on lilied seas to lands remote. 

Where Eastern scenes are met 

In the smoke-vistas of my odorous ciga- 
rette. 

I'm in the shadow of a low-limbed tree, 

When May-time gilds the lea 

And clover scents the air; 

While on the songful boughs the robins 

pair, 
And butterflies and flowers flutter fair, 
When on it I uncoil. 
And wonder how a man can fall in love 

with toil. 

Labor is grand and noble, but with me, 
Somehow, does not agree — 
Give me this cosy nest, 
This warm empurpled nook of hallowed 
rest. 



58 MY PLEASANT SETTLE. 

With One near by to make the bower 

blest, 
And just a beaten track : 
Over the rugs into the dining-room — 

and back. 



THE M.D.'S SONGFUL 
SOLILOQUY. 

When May with blossoms was aglow, 
Their way my patients wended 

To me and asked: " Where shall we go 
This summer to be mended?" 

The careworn mortal, long and thin, 
With features sere and yellow, 

I told if he would color win 
To go to Campobello. 

The maiden with a weary look. 
Who'd for next season rally, 

I sent unto a quiet nook 
Way up the Mohawk valley. 

The girl who thought she had a throat 

Affection growing chronic 
Departed on the Hartford boat 

To find the Housatonic. 
59 



6o THE M.D.'S SONGFUL SOLILOQUY. 

I sent some up to Ponkapog, 

Nantucket, Lynn, New Bedford, 

Secaucus, Saratoga, Quoque, 
Lake Saranac and Medford. 

Now while September tones the air, 

I'm working like a beaver. 
For now my patients need my care 

Through chills and typhoid fever. 

They went away serene and sound 
To bracing sea and mountain, 

And in those lovely places found 
Disease's murky fountain. 

I send those people off each May 

With antelopic quickness. 
And make things in the autumn pay 

Through many a case of sickness. 

Hurrah ! for all the rural charm 
That makes my triumph stellar! 

Hurrah ! for every undrained farm 
That doesn't know a cellar! 



THE M.D.'S SONGFUL SOLILOQUY. 6i 

The town such healthful methods courts 

I have this grave misgiving: 
The doctors, but for health resorts, 

Could scarcely make a living. 



A FLOWER FANCY. 

The lissome vine has climbed the wand 
of green 

With infinite delight, 
And at the top, with pleasure rare and 
keen, 

It sports a blossom white. 
That vine's a cashless boy with smiles 
abeam; 

The wand's a pole, gaunt, tall; 
And the white flower's his happy, happy 
dream. 

Watching a game of ball. 



62 



**T0 PUCK." 

The day is dull, and so am I, 
And here's the knotty question: 

Where is the theme that I may try 
Upon your kind digestion? 

What shall I write I ask of you? 

Because this dreary weather, 
My mind is cracked — I haven't two 

Ideas to rub together. 

No fruit blooms in my study brown, 
I'm feeling worse than feeble, 

In vain for fun I've taken down 
And scanned my vellum Keble. 

I've looked my Milman's Gibbon o'er, 
My Burton and my Hervey; 

In vain — my soul is limp and sore. 
My brains are topsey-turvey. 
63 



64 TO PUCK. 

"The drugget is a little drug," 

I write, and this but dazes 
My reason, and across the rug 

I toss it to the blazes. 

^'Suppose the ship should lose her hold,' 

My fancy, what a thesis! 
"Suppose a Spanish soldier bold, 

Called General Pa-resis!" 

Alas, I can not raise a laugh 

To-day for love or money; 
If I rhyme "seraph" with "giraffe," 

It's stupider than funny. 

And so I'll lay my pen aside. 
And boil the Medford kettle; 

And then I'll indolently glide, 
And settle on the settle. 

And then I'll smoke till day is done 

The weed of Carolina, 
And sing, "Begone, dull care, begone, 

Begone to Dresden China." 



TO THE POET OF THE 
GARDEN. 

" But you never can put beans into poetry." — 
" My Summer in a Garden." — 

Charles Dudley Warner. 

Dear Mr. Warner: In your book you say- 
That there can be no poetry in beans, 
Which dainty hails from those poetic 

scenes 
That glow a paradise in Omar's lay. 

If after you've observed the bean's bloom 
spray 
Flower the wind 'mid other alien 

greens 
You hold your harsh opinion, it but 
means 
The effete down East has rendered you 
blase. 

6S 



66 TO THE POET OF THE GARDEN. 

Poet and peasant for the sweet bean sigh, 
Whether of Lima or St. Botolph's 
town — 
O luscious banquet, fit for kings and 

queens! 
Fit for the gods upon Olympus high — 
I can't believe that, growing or baked 
brown, 
Poetically, you do not know beans. 



PUT TO SLEEP. 

Back and forth in the rocker. 

Lost in a reverie deep, 
The mother rocked while trying 

To sing the baby to sleep. 

The baby began a-crowing, 
For silent he could n't keep, 

And after a while the baby 

Had crowed his mother to sleep. 



67 



AT DEWY MORN. 

The east is blushing, 
The landscape flushing, 
The water 's glowing 

A silver dream. 
A faint light-billow 
Illumes hiy pillow; 
The rooster 's crowing 

With joy supreme. 

The morning in shimmering gold is 
moulded, 
The robin chants in the tree-top tall ; 
And at last the mosquito 's softly folded 
His murmurous wing on the cottage 
wall. 

Where shadows darkle, 
The dew-drops sparkle 
68 



AT DEWY MORN. 69 

On lilies, roses, 

And other things. 
And for the lakelet, 
Ducklet and drakelet. 
Project their noses 

And spread their wings. 

The flower that seems of the softest silk 
made 
Cradles the bee on the mountain brow; 
And out in the sunshine the rosy milk- 
maid 
Adroitly manipulates the cow. 

The frisky heifer 
Inhales the zephyr. 
Scented with clover, 

Snowy and deep. 
Though bent on rising. 
With ease surprising 
I turn me over 

And fall asleep. 



70 AT DEWY MORN. 

Oh, I drop in a cat-nap, sweet and sooth- 
ing, 
And wander through meadows green 
and bright, 
And forget that the blooming infant 
toothing, 
Has kept me prancing the floor all 
night. 



AT LAST. 

She tips to-and-fro in the old rocking 
chair, 

Her forehead is wrinkled, and white is 
her hair, 

While her grand-children romp in a tur- 
bulent throng 

She reads the fond words of a tender 
love-song. 

That love-song was writ her one sunshiny- 
day, 

When her heart was as light as the 
breezes in May, 

When her figure was graceful, her cheek 
like a rose. 

And never were spectacles perched on 
her nose. 

71 



72 AT LAST. 

The lover that wrote her that sonnet, 
alas, 

Has peacefully slept 'neath the long 
tangled grass 

For years — and the words of his elo- 
quent lay 

*'Miss Violet" reads for the first time to- 
day. 

You ask why that poem thus lingered 

unseen? 
He had sent it that time to a great 

magazine, 
And the publishing man let the musical 

waif 
Unprinted remain fifty years in the safe. 



AT THE SHRINE. 

A pale Italian peasant, 

Beside the dusty way, 
Upon this morning pleasant 

Kneels in the sun to pray. 

Silent in her devotion, 

With fervent glance she pleads; 
Her fingers' only motion, 

Telling her amber beads. 

Dreaming of ilex bowers 
Beyond the purple brine 

Once more she sees the flowers 
Bloom at the wayside shrine. 

And, while the mad crowd jostles, 
She, with a visage sweet. 

Prays where the bisque apostles 
Are sold on Barclay street. 

73 



FAME. 

In mediaeval Persia 

The critics, rapture-fraught, 
Paid homage to Firdousi, 

And Omar was as naught. 

But now the rarest judges 
Who song divinely love. 

Place the neglected Omar 
Firdousi far above. 

Look to your crown, Lord Alfred, 

For in the future far 
You may be as Firdousi, 

And Tupper as Omar. 



74 



A CRITIC ON NATURE. 

Old nature *s dear and good enough, 

To love her is a duty; 
But all this fol-de-rol and sturf 

About her endless beauty 
Quite sickens me; for often I, 

A-dream in by-ways sunny, 
Observe a tone along the sky 

That 's funnier than funny. 

I like old Nature when she can't 

Provoke my honest strictures — 
When, conscientious, I can chant 

Her charms as seen in pictures. 
When I am sure her dreamy tones 

Of sky and middle distance 
Are equal to the tones of Jones, 

They '11 be beyond resistance. 

Those clouds that right and left I see, 
In grouping and in movement 

75 



7^ A CRITIC ON NATURE. 

Beneath the hand of Brown Magee 
Would show a vast improvement. 

Old Nature in the studios 
Of Robinson McKesson 

Could gain a point on afterglows, 
On setting suns a lesson, 

I laugh at Nature and her themes, 

Until I think I 'm fainting; 
I only like her when she seems 

To imitate a painting. 
Her foaming sea to me is wool 

And like flock of poodles. 
You ought to see the beautiful 

Marines by Toodles Toodles. 

I love her in the Autumn glow 

Of flames all turvey topsey, 
For then she kindly holds, I know, 

The mirror up to Cropsey. 
When this she does, her praise I sing; 

And,^ no more pessimistic, 
I idolize the dear old thing 

For being so artistic. 



BALLADE OF THE DECLINING 
YEAR. 

The butterfly has left the lea, 

Where golden rods and asters blow; 
No more the little honey bee 

Swings on the lily to and fro. 
The rustling sheaf betokens snow, 

And from the poet's innermost 
Recesses doth this songlet flow: 

There are no quail on last year's toast. 

No robin carols in the tree. 

The garden wears the weeds of woe, 
And o'er the cornfield circles free 

That pirate of the air — the crow. 
And now the happy schoolboys go 

Chestnutting in a merry host; 
Sad is the hazy afterglow: 

There are no quail on last year's toast. 
77 



78 BALLADE. 

Upon the lonely shore the sea 

The livelong day is moaning low, 
Where, 'neath a silken canopy 

We once saw soft eyes softer grow. 
Where are they — Maud, Louise and Jo 

We met upon the Jersey coast? 
Those days again we '11 never know — 

There are no quail on last year's toast. 

ENVOL 
Poets that "note," "mark," "ween," 
and trow," 
The summer soon gives-up the ghost — 
The circus is a fleeting show. 

There are no quail on last year's toast. 



DAWN. 

Behind the tangled forest, dark and deep 

It burns, a sea of rose. 
Whose airy billows o'er the wild wastes 
creep 

And sparkle on the snows. 

A white star gayly trembles in the blue, 

A crow the silence breaks. 
And from the high limb of the solemn 
yew, 

The wind a snow-wreath shakes. 

The air is clear and sweet as golden wine. 
Warmed by day's early beam ; 

The distan. hills in rolling purple shine. 
And, from a poet's dream, 

I wake to hear Myrtilla play a great 

Tattoo with vim and dash. 
Chopping the pickled beeve to formulate 

The matutinal hash. 



RECIPROCITY. 

The Christmas Morning soliloquy of a Com- 
mission Maid Servant. 

When the lush-blush rose smiled upon 
the tree, 
And the earth blossomed 'neath the 
young May moon, 
Into the barrel, with an air care-free, 
I cast the chicken, dish and knife and 
spoon; 
I gave my poor relations coffee, tea; 
And often on a summer afternoon 
I wasted ice to make the ice-man glad; 
And on this happy day my heart's not 
sad. 

For here the sealskin sacqite behold. 

The grocer's recognition 
Of all my services untold 

To strengthen his position. 
80 



RECIPROCITY. 8l 

The ice-man^ sinister and grim. 

Within my dream reposes. 
He knows that I looked out for him 

Throughout the time of roses. 

When whistling winter reddened ear and 

nose, 
I stopped the fire and made the kitchen 

cold; 
And soon the leaden pipes all stiffly 

froze, 
And on the princely plumber showered 

gold. 
I wasted coal, and that is, I suppose, 
Why I have got the dealer in my 

hold. 
I see the presents in my vision glow: 
To-morrow for the Safe Deposit Co. 

Oh, look at this porcelain pitcher! 

Oh! look at this bright cJiatelaine! 
The plumber through me has grown richer; 

The coal dealer, also, ^tis plain. 



82 RECIPROCITY. 

Oh my, but I have a position 

That fills 77ie with joy through and 
through ! 
Because, while I work on commission, 

I work upon salary too. 

I '11 leave the fresh meat on the tubs to- 
night 
That it may spoil, and make the 

butcher dance 
With rapture; and till morn I'll burn 

each light, 
To waste the oil at which they never 

glance. 
I'll fall down stairs, and in my rapid 

flight 
Shatter a tray of "Dresden " bought 

in France — 
And let these princes very plainly see 
What a warm friend they have in Madge 

McGee. 



RECIPROCITY. S3 

And they '11 remember me when next 
the year 
Piles high its snowdrifts at the gar- 
den gate; 
When all the earth is sad, and bleak and 
drear, 
With gold and gem they '11 make my 
heart elate. 
I know that to them I am very dear, 
Because I make them powerful and 
great, 
And unto me they with high favor lean — 
I, their commission culinary queen. 



A CLERGYMAN ON JUNE. 

The world with blooming beauty now is 
bright, 
Sweet hope and promise in all things 

I see; 
Pathetic grows the cough assumed by 
me 
To gain a furlough and the Isle of 

Wight; 
I walk the odorous meads with pure 
delight, 
Where the blithe lambkin gambols wild 

and free, 
As I observe the dusty-belted bee 
Into the waving lily sink from sight. 
A rosy peace the day serenely fills; 
The dimpled clouds lie still against 

the blue; 
A benison lies on the land and sea. 



A CLERGYMAN ON JUNE. 85 

Oh, June, whose generous verdure robes 
the hills. 

Of all the months my favorite are you. 
Sweet moon of mating-song and wed- 
ding fee! 



THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 

There was once a jolly plumber in a lit- 
tle country town, 
And a very jolly plumbing knight was 
he. 
Once I heard him skip and sing like a 
poet in the spring, 
In a sort of rapture-drunken ecstasee; 
"I'm the great big man 
From Beersheba unto Dan, 

For my bill is always longer than the 
snipe's; 
And I drive my patrons frantic 
When I use my strength gigantic 

In a happy hammer solo on their pipes, 
And I shout heigh ho. 
Woe is me, by Jo! 

With a heigh, ho, tra la la la lee — 
I'm a hummer of a plumber, 
86 



THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 87 

In the winter and the summer, 

And the monarch of the mountain and 
the sea!" 
And the sea, 

And the monarch of the mountain 
and the sea. 

Then he crawled beneath the boiler in 
his sky-blue overalls — 
Oh, he started with a spartan spunk 
and vim; 
And he diagnosed the job with his cran- 
ium a-bob 
While he caroled like a bluebird on the 
limb: 
**0h, there's naught wrong here, 
That is very, very clear. 

But I '11 make a fracture quicker than 
a shot — 
For the gold to paint the chateau, 
Smiling sweetly on the plateau. 

And to put new sails upon the sum- 
mer yacht. 
With a high ho ho, 



88 THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 

Wo is me — me is wo, 

With a rip rap fol de loddy lay, 
I'm the lordly old mechanic 
That can make Titanic panic 

With the customer that stumbles in 
my way, 
In my way. 

With the customer that stumbles in 
my way. 

Then his kit did he unbuckle, and the 
hammer took in hand 
For to deal the heavy death-blow like 
a flash; 
When the boiler quickly burst, and the 
plumber got the worst 
Of the bargain, for he flitted with the 
crash. 
He was there no more, 
For a-flying through the door 

With the swiftness of the humming- 
bird went he; 
And no more he '11 gayly caper 
'Neath the tubs with lighted taper 

On a mission of most fell iniquitee. 



THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 89 

Oh, no more he '11 hear 
In this care-fraught sphere 

His unhallowed critics while they 
rudely carp; 
And his family supposes, 
While he dozes 'neath the roses 

That his spirit free discourses on the 
harp. 
On the harp. 

That his spirit free discourses on 
the harp. 

Still when loudly blows the blizzard, and 
the snow is drifted high, 
And the frost is on the rattling 
window pane — 
In the middle of the night do we shudder 
in our fright, 
While we listen to a ghostly, weird 
refrain ; 
Oh it sadly moans 
In the dolefulest of tones 

While uncanny phantoms round the 
threshold hang: 



90 THE JOLLY PLUMBER. 

"Oft I visit earth's dominions, 
On the whirlwind's icy pinions, 

Just to see the pipes a-busting with 
a bang: 
To the scenes of my crimes 
I delight to come at times, 

And to shout, though in the flesh I 
cannot be; 
I'm a hummer of a plumber, 
In the winter and the summer. 

And the monarch of the mountain 
and the sea, 
And the sea. 

And the monarch of the mountain 
and the sea." 



TO A CERTAIN KIND OF 
POET. 

Daisies, Praises, 

Meadows, Shadows, 

Roses, Posies 
Gay. 
These are rhymes this poet mingles 
When he merrily be-gingles merry, merry 

May. 

These are ancient rhymes, and, therefore, 

Should be cast aside; 
Wherefore, wherefore, wherefore, where- 
fore 

Has the bard no pride? 

Better far to say that stucco 
Shields the nest on high 

Of the phoebe or the cuckoo. 
Though it be a lie. 
91 



92 TO A POET. 

Better far upon the greensward, 

Say his spirit springs 
Radiantly pork and beansward 

On delighted wings. 

But this poet, inspired, impassioned, 
Will stick to his rhymes old-fashioned. 

"Blossom," "blossom," "blossom," 

These will rhyme forever 
With "bosom," "bosom," "bosom," 

Like "river" with "endeavor." 
Like "river" with "endeavor," 

Will "blossom" rhyme with "bosom," 
As "ever" rhymes with "river," 

Will "bosom" rhyme with "blossom." 
There are no extra charges for this Ten- 

nysonian touch, 
'T is a little vagrant fancy, and it 's all 
the same in Dutch. 

But this poet, not "staccato," 
E'er will jingle with ''tomato," 
When "grove" and "shove" and "grass" 
and "case" remain. 



TO A POET. 93 

He will rhymeward feebly grope, 
Quite like Alexander Pope, 
And he '11 fill our tuneful soul with ache 
and pain. 

When we read his airy jingles from Ver- 
mont to Colorado, 

In the magazine that circulates from 
Oregon to Yeddo, 

AVith his "blossom" and his "bosom" 
and his"meadow" and his "shadow" 

And his "praises" and his "daisies" and 
his "shadow" and his "meadow." 



AN OLD BEAU. 

Oft I think with a smile in my trim swal- 
low-tail, 

At the rout where fresh roses their 
fragrance exhale, 

Of the days when my pate was a bower 
of curls. 

And I danced with the grandmas of 
all these dear girls. 

When I look on the charms that their 

beauties unfold, 
They 're to me the same damsels, though 

I have grown old — 
While I feel like white winter without a 

warm ray. 
They appear like the rosebuds a-tremble 

in May. 



94 



AN OLD BEAU. 95 

But the winter may look with its shiver 
and chill 

Through the pane at the flowers that 
bloom on the sill — 

And I think I '11 ask Maud with the ring- 
lets of jet 

If she '11 only be mine for the next min- 
uet. 

Oh, I know that I'm not quite so old as 

I look, 
For my voice has no crack, and my back 

has no crook — 
And I 'd feel like a prince if May, Maud, 

and Lucile 
Would but treat me like one who's as 

young as I feel. 



THE BEETLE. 

Along the balmy tide of night 

He drifts about the dreaming rose, 
Until I stop his happy flight 

Abruptly with my freckled nose. 
He hits me, then he flies away, 

Then back into the room he flits, 
To roast and toast within the ray 
The weary, wheezing lamp emits. 
Oh, now he throbs. 
And bangs, and bobs 
With all his might and main, 
A chunketty chunk, 
A plunketty plunk. 
Against the window pane. 

Upon the air he seems to swim. 

And when he circles round my head 

I think if I'd escape from him 
That I must tumble into bed; 
96 



THE BEETLE. 97 

Then at him with a towel damp 

I strike with vigor, vim and dash, 
And laugh to see him graze the lamp 
And singe his whiskers and moustache. 
Oh, still he throbs, 
And bangs, and bobs, 
With all his might and main, 
A chunketty chunk, 
A plunketty plunk. 
Against the window pane. 

From high to low his frou-frou shifts; 

He is so far and yet so near. 
That when he down the ceiling drifts. 

He seems tip-tilting on my ear. 
He moves, methinks, on wings of song; 
I watch him skim and twist and turn, 
And he will circle just so long 

As this old lamp holds out to burn 
For still he throbs. 
And bangs, and bobs 
With all his might and main, 
A chunketty chunk, 
A plunketty plunk. 
Against the window pane. 



BALLADE OF THE TEA 
CIGARETTE. 

Away with sugar, spoon and cream, 
With burnished samovar away. 

And earthen pot emitting steam. 
And fragile china blue and gay. 
With Spring-like flowers in a spray 

Anemone and violet. 

We drink no tea, but smoke to-day 

The dainty oolong cigarette. 

We see sweet Angelina beam 

With smiles that round her dimples 
play. 
The snow of the "electric's" gleam 

Kissing her beauty pink as May, 

She is not "pouring" as they say; 
But know we nought of fume and fret, 

When she rolls (all our cares to slay) 
The dainty oolong cigarette. 
98 



BALLADE. 99 

With butterflies the parlors teem — 
Smoke butterflies, all pearly gray, 

That drifting toward the ceiling seem 
O'er Chinese tulip beds to stray 
Till some light wind creeps in to fray 

Them into dome and minaret — 

Oh, here supplants the Henry Clay, 

The dainty oolong cigarette. 

ENVOL 
Against the weed we '11 all inveigh, 

O rare and dimple-cheeked Babette, 
When you serve on the lacquered tray 

The dainty oolong cigarette. 



MY CHICKENS. 

The chickens that I used to own 
Were birds of high degree ; 

Both far and favorably known 
And beautiful to see. 

I'd watch the Cochin proudly trot 

And tower o'er the flock, 
Composed of Leghorn, Wyandotte, 

Brahma and Plymouth Rock. 

I'd greet them in the rosy morn 

In complimentary terms, 
And throw them grains of shining corn 

And early angle worms. 

A roof of glass kept off the storm 

But not the sunny ray — 
I had a stove to keep them warm 

Against a Winter day. 



MY CHICKENS. lOl 

About them on the train I 'd boast, 

I o'er their beauty sighed; 
My costly chickens were almost 

My only joy and pride. 

They are no more — their days are told, 

And in their places now 
The meanest fowls that come for gold 

Are roosting on the bough. 

They are an ornery-looking lot, 
They 're scrawney, with no style; 

Observe them and upon the spot 
You can't withhold a smile. 

Their crops with corn I never fill, 
But set them free, and then 

They gayly skirmish round until 
They clothe the inner hen. 

Their fruit abundant, though it 's fried 
Or poached, or boiled, or shirred, 

Makes me rejoice to think I 've tried 
The common barn-yard bird. 



I02 MY CHICKENS. 

This bird shall always round me prowl, 

Or linger on one leg, 
And ne'er the prize, blue -blooded fowl 

That never lays an egg. 



THE POETS OF PRINTING 
HOUSE SQUARE. 

[to a. b. p.] 
They 're a jolly good set, and they live 
not in vain; 
I have known them for many a year, 
E'en when youth was a dream that I 'm 
dreaming again. 
When we sat o'er the pipes and the 
beer. 
Oh, Bohemia was happy and halcyon 
then, 
And its roses were fragrant and fair 
Though the wealth of the Indies bloomed 
not in the ken 
Of the Poets of Printing House Square. 

Then the bays and the laurels Fame's 
wind set aglow 
When the muse lent her favoring wing, 
103 



I04 THE POETS. 

And the singers to-day with the beards 
white as snow 
Were the butterflies then of the spring. 
Oh, our Ultima Thule of gold was the 
price 
Of the beaker that banished all care, 
While it made all the earth like a green 
paradise 
To the Poets of Printing House Square. 

To those bowers in spirit I often repair, 

And I linger in glee on the scenes 
Where we builded the castles that crum- 
bled to air 
In McGuffey's pavilion of beans. 
Oh, the coffee and doughnuts within us 
instilled 
Inspiration to do and to dare, 
And their beautiful mission was ever 
fulfilled 
For the Poets of Printing House 
Square. 



THE POETS. 105 

There was Frank, who would dream in a 
cigarette-joy, 
While he watched the smoke ripple 
and swirl ; 
There was Caleb, who made all the world 
love his boy. 
When he sang of the Little Brown Curl. 
There was Jack, who the methods of pub- 
lishers curst, 
AVho would soar on song pinions most 
rare. 
For the shekels to quench his unquench- 
able thirst 
With the Poets of Printing House 
Square. 

Oh yes, though we 're older and still 
deep in debt. 
Do we sing with the spirit of yore ; 
And we '11 all keep it up till the canvas 
is set 
For a sail to the opposite shore. 



io6 THE POETS. 

But upon that grim day, with its shiver 
and chill, 
When to some other realm we must 
fare. 
Though we 're seraphs or not, you may 
wager, we '11 still 
Be the Poets of Printing House Square. 



THE WUNK. 

The wunk is a variety of dog peculiar to 
Central Asia. — Morning Paper. 

From Central Asia's sunny clime, 

In Gotham to cavort, 
Through Summer time and Winter prime, 

In revelry and sport. 
Has come, we hope and trust to stay. 

And make his downy bunk, 
And bark and jump and have his day, 
The winky-wanky wunk. 
The festive little wunk. 
The playful little wunk, 
The frisky, smiling. 
Care-beguiling 
Winky-wanky wunk. 

The wunk is quite a moral dog. 
That never shirks or steals; 
107 



lo8 THE WUNK. 

Upon a chain he '11 gayly jog 

At Isabella's heels. 
And soon that beauty '11 cast aside 

Her bulldog, full of spunk, 
And have in sky-blue ribbons tied, 
The winky-wanky wunk. 
The clumsy little wunk. 
The wabbling little wunk, 
The rolling, tumbling. 
Stocky, stumbling 
Winky-wanky wunk. 

When e'er the wunk the cat detects 

The backyard roaming free. 
He howls, and at her neck projects 

Himself in fiendish glee. 
And when on her he swiftly lands, 

With rosy rapture drunk, 
She in a jiffy understands 
The winky-wanky wunk. 
The watchful little wunk. 
The wary little wunk. 
The cat-annoying, 
Pie-destroying, 
Winky-wanky wunk. 



THE WUNK. 109 

Long may the wunk so shaggy wave 

His caudal on our rug, 
And trot behind us o'er the pave, 

As nimbly as the pug. 
All other doggies far above, 

From Texas to Podunk, 
We '11 hymn the golden glories of 
The winky-wanky wunk. 
The gray-eyed little wunk, 
The blinking little wunk. 
The rapture-crazy. 
Lazy, daisy, 
Winky-wanky wunk. 



AN EPITAPH. 

Beneath this quiet, turfy, 
And flower-scented green 

Lies Arabella Murphy, 
As usual — Kerosene. 



MASTERY. 

A mighty wrestler, walking through a 

wood, 
Proud of his wond'rous strength and 

prowess, spoke: 
*'Quick could I hurl, were I but in the 

mood, 
To the four winds, yon century-rooted 

oak! 

A sorry figure in my hold 't would cut, 
Although defiant in the cyclone's 
track — " 
His heel then came in contact with a nut. 
That quickly turned, and stretched him 
on his back. 



THE JOYS OF RURAL LIFE. 

[ SUMMER ] 

Oh, it 's lovely in the country, when the 
birds are gay and merry, 
And upon the slender trellis blows the 
lavender wistaria, 
And you watch the gold bee booming in 
the blossoms of the berry, 
While you 're quaking, while you 're 
shaking, while you 're aching with 
malaria. 

Airs so shifting, lightly drifting blossoms 
through the limbs are sifting. 
Woodbines clamber like the amber of 
the tipple of Bavaria, 
As you view the dimpled cloudlets in 
the blue horizon lifting. 
While you 're quaking, while you 're 
shaking, while you 're aching with 
malaria. 

Ill 



112 JOYS OF RURAL LIFE. 

In a nooklet with a booklet by a brook- 
let where the cattle 
Came to drink, you list the ripple of 
the bobolinkum aria, 
Though you 're lips are painted purple 
and your bones all crack and rattle. 
While you 're quaking, while you 're 
shaking, while you 're aching with 
malaria. 

[ WINTER ] 

Oh the country is as lovely in the winter 
as in May time, — 
With the wind that lights your fea- 
tures with a rosy posy glow. 
It 's the farmer's merry play time, not 
potato time or hay time — 
With a cellarful of water and a gar- 
retful of snow. 

With its holly, pretty Polly, it is jolly, 
never crisper 
Are the airs that make the windrows 
where the rabbit footprints show, 



JOYS OF RURAL LIFE. 113 

And around the logs we linger while they 
sputter and they whisper — 
With a cellarful of water and a garretful 
of snow. 

There is leisure, there is pleasure, with- 
out measure from each quarter — 

Oh, the coasting and the skating that 
these fleeting moments know — 

With a garretful of snow and a cellarful 
of water, 
And a cellarful of water and a garret- 
ful of snow. 



IN DEFENCE OF THE 
ADVERTISING MUSE. 

SHAKESPEARE SPEAKS. 

Sometimes when I 'm not at work on a 
play 

Historic and full of warfare, 
I try my hand, in a casual way, 

At an ad. to keep me in carfare. 

Why should n't I praise the bilious pill 
And in loftiest numbers chirrup, 

And make the popular heartstrings thrill 
With a poem on soothing syrup? 

Why should n't I cleave the cloudless 
dome 
Through the billow of light that's polar, 
To rhapsodize on Excelsior Foam 
That preserves the fleeting molar. 
114 



ADVERTISING MUSE. 115 

Sing ho! for the laurels won by me 
On the lotion prepared for freckles! 

My harp shan't hang on the willow tree 
While the soap muse brings me shekels. 

For I know in a general sort of a way, 
While with laughter I 'm sorely shaken, 

That the critics will rise in their might 
and say 
That they all were written by Bacon. 



STRAWBERRIES. 

We wandered in the woodland dim, 
And there amid the leafy gloom, 

I plucked, to please her airy whim, 
The fragile snow-white strawberry 
bloom. 

'Twas when the strawberries were ripe 
I wooed her by the sapphire sea, 

And heard the mating bluebirds pipe 
A prescience full of joy to me. 

And when the wedding bells rang free, 
And all our thoughts flowed on like 
rhyme, 

The blush was on the strawberry — 
The strawberry was in its prime. 

Two years have swiftly flown since then — 
Two happy years — once more the birds 
ii6 



STRAWBERRIES. 117 

And strawberries are in the glen, 

That heard of love our whispered 
words. 

The honeysuckle freights the breeze, 
The garden blows rose-red with June, 

And on his plate of strawberries 

The baby's drumming with his spoon. 



A DIRGE. 

All nature 's now as sad and gray 

As ever it can be, 
The leaflets through the garden stray- 
No tulips can I see; 
The rabbits skip about all day, 

The daisies softly flee. 
The chickens all have ceased to lay. 

And on the locust tree 
The squirrels gaily frisk and play — 

And one thing's plain to me 
The pasture fields are not so gay 

As when cavorting free, 
I saw the lambkins of the May 

Within the blooming lea. 
The coal man now is making hay 

Which is not timo-thee 
While I parade the woodland way 

Spellbound unto my tea, 
iiS 



A DIRGE. 119 

And smoke my pipe — my Henry Clay, 

And do not care a "d;" 
But sing my old ratooral-a 

Ritooral ooral-e 



AT 8:30 P. M. 

The music of the distant sea 

Now murmurs through the balmy air; 
No longer butterfly and bee 

Flit round the garden here and there. 
The first white star is in the sky, 

The hoptoad rests beneath the weed, 
And in a heap 
The cow's asleep 
Upon the bosom of the mead. 

The bat is circling wild and free, 

The frog is croaking loud and long, 
Mine ear, methinks, discovers the 

Mosquito's rude, unhallowed song. 
I hear the shrieking whip-poor-will. 
That keeps it up with Spartan spunk. 
While on yon pane 
A wild refrain, 
The June bug goes "kerplunk, ker- 
plunk!" 



AT 8:30 P.M. I 

The banners of the mellow corn 

Now ripple like a silver lake 
Beneath the rising moon, whose horn 

Keeps yon infernal dog awake. 
The dew drop 's on the lily bell, 
The hollyhock 's asleep, and hence 
I '11 tilt my chair 
In comfort rare, 
And rest my heels upon the fence. 

The night is grand, no cloudlets sail 

Across the star-besprinkled sky; 
The turkey resting on the rail 

Is not one-eighth so glad as I. 
Oh, golden rapture brims my cup, 
I dream on pleasure's pearly shore — 
And here I 'II sport. 
And hold the fort 
While this old jug holds out to pour. 



BUT— 

She ever wears the selfsame gracious 
smile — 
A smile of Maytime sweet, 
Which doth my visions with its cheer be- 
guile 
Upon the dusty street. 

Her manner's ever chic and debonair, 

Her spirits e'er serene, 
And, like the snowy Summer rose, she 's 
fair 

And of majestic mien. 

Her eyes are black — as black as blackest 
night — 

She is a poet's dream; 
As lovely as the lily blowing white 

Upon time's crystal stream. 



BUT— 123 

I watch the colors of her flowered gown, 

Wind-dimpled all the day; 
I note her fondly as I walk down town 

Each morning on my way. 

While through the working day I gayly 
build 

The ode and vitelay, 
I dream about the wistful smiles that gild 

This tricksy urban fay. 

I think about the happy, happy bud 

Upon her jaunty hat. 
And then my thoughts become a whirl- 
ing flood — 

My heart goes pit-a-pat. 

And yet this stately damosel divine — 
This nymph of beauty rare — 

So airy, sweet, of dimpled curve and line. 
Can not my sorrows share. 

Because this dainty dream of smiling love 
That makes my fancies soar. 

Is a lay figure in the window of 
McGuflin's dry goods store. 



THROUGH GARDEN AND 
MEADOW. 

In eighteen-carrot raptures 
I wander round the place 

My pensive spirit captures 
Its flower-scented grace. 

Hibiscus, ampelopsis, 

Alyssum, cyclamen, 
Lobelia, ipomopsis 

Are blooming in my ken. 

The Indian pipe, which surely 
Should be the calumet, 

I watch while I demurely 
Enjoy my cigarette. 

The pinks blow in perfection. 
The ice-plant melts away; 

For Tammany's election 
The tiger lily 's gay. 
124 



GARDEN AND MEADOW. 125 

I murmur unto Phyllis: 

"Sweet William 's not afraid 

To sport with Amaryllis — 
See Milton — in the shade." 

The blue and gold lantana, 

The red-hot poker plant, 
The gay virumque canna 

Inspire my little chant. 

The muse my spirit masters 
Till here I seem to bide, 

As rich as all the asters 

That blossom in their pride. 



A SUMMER MEMORY. 

'Twas at the seaside last July, 

Upon an evening still, 
When, as I took my promenade 

Along old Hemlock Hill, 
A maiden fair looked down on me 

From a vine-clad window sill. 

She was a lily-fashioned dream, 

Symbolic of the Spring; 
She was angelic, pure and sweet. 

And all that sort of thing; 
The bangles on her snowy wrist 

Went ding-a-ling-a-ling. 

Her hair was gold, her eyes were blue. 
Her teeth were pearly white; 

And all the sweetness of her face 
Was lit with morning light. 

These similes are ancient, but 
They fill the bill aright. 
126 



A SUMMER MEMORY. i: 

I said she was my Northern star 

At twilight in the dell; 
I said she was a regal rose, 

And naught my love could quell, 
And flashed on her enraptured gaze 

The winning caramel. 

With her I laughed at every fate. 
And life's unpleasant bumps; 

I fondly called on her each night 
With nervous skips and jumps, 

In beaver hat and Sunday cane. 
And patent leather pumps. 

To walk with her beside the sea 

At dusk I ne'er would fail, 
And in the waltz at hops and balls 

We 'd madly, wildly sail — 
She in her latest Paris gown, 

I in my swallow-tail. 

At last the golden Summer passed, 

With all its listless fun, 
Its yachting parties, moonlight walks, 

Croquet at set of sun ; 



138 A SUMMER MEMORY. 

And scarlet lemonade, with straws, 
But then, the girl I won. 

Yet, when the Autumn o'er the glade 
Advanced on rustling feet, 

And epicures began to dream 
Of quail and sausage meat, 

I primed my heart and suddenly 
Gave up this maiden sweet. 

She sent me back the diamond ring 

I gave her, love-elate; 
She sent me back the shaggy skye 

Presented at the gate. 
The Tupper, Owen Meredith, 

And Poet Laureate. 

And yet this rosebud of a maid 

Was e'er my love elect; 
I thought without her I should be 

Irrevocably v/recked ; 
But had to coldly cast her off. 

Because of self respect. 

Alas, her father tried to sail 
One sunny morn away. 



A SUMMER MEMORY. 129 

As "Jotham Heatherbee " he felt 

In spirits blithe and gay; 
But ere the good ship '^Bothnia" 

Went skimming down the bay, 

A big detective on the wharf 

The bulwarks bounded o'er, 
And that white-haired bank president 

From stateroom eighty-four • 
Most quickly brought, and handcuffed 

him 

And walked him up the shore. 

Full soon was he transported north 

Upon the flying cars, 
And now at Sing Sing on the Hud 

He dreams behind the bars. 
And in the daytime works, and wears 

The stripes without the stars. 

Now, that 's the only reason why 

I gave the maiden up, 
And got from her most suddenly 

My diamond ring and pup, 
My vellum Owen Meredith, 

My Tennyson and >Tup. 



THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN. 

Mrs. Richards has been discoursing upon 
the old but ever timely subject of school lun- 
cheons, and predicts that perfectly appointed 
kitchens will soon be included in the plans of 
every school building. — Morning Paper, 

All hail, all hail, most dear kind-hearted 
dame. 
You 're now the object of the school- 
boy's love; 
His love 's the tender halo of your name 
For placing lobster salad far above 
The soggy sandwich, and the broiled 
wood dove. 
Above the saline pickle, which no more 
Shall fit his rubber stomach like a 
glove. 
He 's like a dreamer on a sun-lit shore, 
Who sees his ship come in laden with 
gold galore. 

130 



THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN. 131 

Now when he wrestles with arithmetic 
He '11 dream about the pleasant time of 
noon, 
And of the airy, evanescent brick 

Of pink ice cream, flanked by a silver 

spoon. 
'T will blend with him e'en as the lush 
raccoon 
Blends with the son of Afric's burning 
sand. 
And joyful he will be from hat to shoon 
To know that learning's kitchen's close 
at hand, 
To breathe the incense rare of silken 
Samarand. 

Begone, begone, grim doughnut of ill 
fame, 
Away, away from here to other-where. 
O baleful pie, for which there's no fit 
name. 
To culture's bowers you shall not re- 
pair. 
Virgil with veal will be a pleasure rare; 



132 THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN. 

Livy with liver, Socrates with soup 

Should lift the pupil to Olympus fair 
And high, whereon the meads the glad 

gods group. 
Just as sponge cake and prunes should 

make his spirits droop. 

Philosophy is very dull and dry, 

And metaphysics is a blooming snare, 
From differential calculus all fly 
As from a brindled tiger in his lair; 
But when these studies with a potted 
hare 
Digested are, 'tis quite another thing. 
The school boy plods along with con- 
science rare 
Through Homer, while he eats the turkey 

wing 
And with the pork chop's fame makes 
the blue welkin ring. 

When fish and Greek will thus assimilate, 
The school bell and the dinner bell are 
one. 



THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN 



00 



And education will associate 

Itself with beef, and spurn the burnish- 
ed bun, 
That like the cheesecake, when the 
day is done 
Creates dyspepsia with an iron hand 

Until the boy the baker shop will shun, 
And shout in joy the gods may under- 
stand, 
"Catullus and clam broth, oh combina- 
tion grand!" 

The boy when grown, upon the bill of fare 
Will read the Greek hexameter divine, 
Theocritus will lend a classic air 

Unto the blue fish from Nantucket's 

brine. 
And that quaint poet of the farm 
Sabine — 
Quintus Horatius Flaccus, B. C. 8, 

Along the vegetable list will shine, 
And make the hungry scholar's soul 

elate. 
While playfully he throws his radishes 
at fate. 



134 THE ACADEMIC KITCHEN. 

Long live the atlas and the frying pan, 
Long live the spelling book and coffee 
pot, 
To foster, from Beersheba unto Dan, 
Brains for Bostonian, Hindoo, Hot- 
tentot! 
Let the chef make the schoolboy's 
dinner hot, 
Let the professor make the light appear 
On gravest problems tough as any 
knot; 
The healthy stomach makes the head 

that 's clear; 
Long wave the teacher with the codfish 
ball, his peer! 



SEA DREAMS IN THE CITY. 

Far from the noisy city's glaring pave 
The rolling billow breaks upon the 
shore ; 
The sail is dimpling on the distant wave 
That rolls in madcap joy the wind be- 
fore ; 
The blue gull circles indolently o'er 
The cloud ship that is drifting down 
the sky, 
White as a lily with a golden core, 
Or as the dainty sculptures that we spy— 
A white rose dream upon the fragile 
fleeting pie. 

I see the small boy with his pail and 
spade 
Building the fort the waves will wash 

away; 

135 



13^ SEA DREAIVIS IN THE CITY. 

I see fair Angelina shyly wade 

Into the water through, the wind- 
tossed spray, 
It is a perfect, shining summer day. 
And, while I hear the ocean's endless 
boom, 
And in a day dream smoke my Henry 
Clay, 
And watch its smoke wreaths softly drift 

and bloom, 
I languish on a cot in a hot hall bed-room. 

Yet I am looking on the back yard, where 

A parched red rose is fading on a slat; 

No gracious raindrop comes to cool the 

air, 

No gentle breeze drifts through the 

humid flat. 
The moth lays eggs upon the urban 
cat 
That doth the alien window sill usurp. 
Ah, now I note the swallow and the 
bat, 



SEA DREAMS IN THE CITY. 137 

And hear the stray mosquito's wistful 

chirp, 
And sympathize with yon chain-choked 

enpurpled purp. 

Now to the high roof-garden will I go, 
And breathe the air that savors of the 
sea, 
And dream about the swirling undertow 
And of the fabled serpent in its glee; 
Then while the music's flowing wild 
and free. 
And the sea nymph is singing at my ear, 

I '11 order in my boundless revel-ree 
The servitor most quickly to appear. 
And then joy's shore I '11 find in seas of 
foaming beer. 



A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE 
GEMS. 

The jocund bluebird capers on the lawn, 

The bee is booming on the mignonette, 

And from her old associates withdrawn. 

The setting shanghai 's full of fume 

and fret. 

Now the soft glimmer of the kiss of dawn 

Trembles serenely on the sign To Let, 

And gilds the pansy by the crystal 

stream, 
And wakes the bullfrog from his winter's 
dream. 

The rich and costly rug from Ispahan 

Upon the line in gaudy beauty blows — 
On the sward shines last year's tomato 

can — 
Last year's tomato — where is that — who 
knows? 

i3« 



A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE GEMS. 139 

On all our rosy hopes fate lays the ban, 
All joy is fleeting like the shine that 

glows 
Upon the light three-dollar russet shoe 
A moment, then takes flight without 

ado. 

This is the time the poet's fancy swells. 
Each bursting bud 's to him a tender 
hope; 
He lifts his voice in homage when he 
knells 
The spot-cash paean of some lilac soap, 
Which he asserts is like the purple bells 
That scatter incense on the mossy 
slope, 
Along the way when breaks the balmy 

morn, 
While the shad vender blows his myrtled 
horn. 

The blush rose at the window still dis- 
ports 
And dips with dreamy joy into the 
breeze, 



HO A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE GEMS. 

And now the taurine quadruped cavorts, 
Ringing his bell beneath the apple 

trees. 
The vender all his strawberries assorts, 
Like sparkling gems plucked from the 

Indian seas, 
According to their size — the big ones 

loom 
On top — For at the top there 's always 

room. 

Myrtilla, with her arms as snowy white 
As moon-kissed lilies swings the gar- 
den rake, 
Where colocynths and tulips shining 
bright 
Sweet dreams of beauty in her bosom 
wake. 
The yellow dog, be-flagoned, howls in 
fright, 
The cloud ship is reflected in the lake; 
Ho, for blue skies above the lone blue 

hills, 
Likewise blue birds, blue violets, blue 
pills! 



A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE GEMS. 141 

The grim mosquito grinds his cimeter. 
Preparing for the summer's golden 
feast — 
The golden feast beneath the silver star, 
When man's from all his gnawing 
care 's released — 
Till Phoebus gliding in her blazing car, 

Effulgent, of a sudden, paints the East, 
His frou frou will be heard throughout 

the land. 
While he eludes the ill-aimed hostile hand. 

The earth is now a smiling lotus land, 

It is an island in a sapphire sea. 
Where the treed monkey smiling blithe 
and bland. 
Hurls down the unmilked cocoanut to 
me. 
The organ grinder by chaste zephyrs 
fanned 
Grinds "Gentle Spring." No sense of 
humor he 
Can boast as he unleashes all agape, 
The stocky, bilious, mercenary ape. 



142 A ROSARY OF ANTIQUE GEMS 

The happy gull about the heavens reels, 
And bobs upon the bosom of the sea, 
From the wishbone the porous plaster 
peels 
Of him, who 's held it seven moons in 
fee. 
The pessimist in joy kicks up his heels. 
And quite forgets in his unbounded 
glee. 
To moan and groan of his unhappy lot: 
"Alas, alack, Bismillah scat, god-wot!" 



BALLADE OF TRIUMPHANT 
TIME. 

Oh, time is ever upon the wing, 

It flies like a gull o'er the shining sea; 
It gathers the white bloom of the spring, 

And the immature apple upon the tree ; 

It gathers all matter from A to Z — 
From the trouser's seat to the lamb of 
May: 

Oh, time is fleeting in ruthless glee — 
To-morrow, to-day will be yesterday. 

Where is last summer's engagement 

ring? 

Where is last Summer itself, and she? 

Mosquito, mosquito, where is thy sting, 

New Jersey, oh where is thy victo- 

ree? 



^3 



'44 BALLADK. 

The ])1 umber must crumble, ah me, 
ah me! 
Like the snow he must fade from the 
earth away ; 
No purse can imprison the green- 
winged V: 
To-morrow, to-day will be yesterday. 

Not long to the skull can the front hair 
cling— 
The reaper is swinging his scythe care- 
free. 
One day doth the bird in the garden sing. 
Then akimbo on Annabel's hat is he; 
To time all subjects must bend the 
knee; 
All beauty must dwindle in slow decay; 

All flesh is grass and some grass is tea: 
To-morrow, to-day will be yesterday. 

ENVOI. 
Prince, even the Presidential Bee, 

A frost benumbs in the sunny ray; 
Our idols fall and our shekels flee — 

To-morrow, to-day will be yesterday. 



IMITATIONS, 



MORNING. 

[CALVERLY.] 

Now the lily on the lake 
Glads the vision of the drake, 
And the golden batter cake 

Gilds the table; 
Now the soft shell crab is spied 
On the platter, richly fried, 
And I see the swallow glide 
Round the stable. 

Now the zephyr lightly blows 
All the dewdrops off the rose. 
And the Shanghai loudly crows. 

On his mettle; 
And the goat in joyous state 
Makes the saucer and the plate 
And the hat assimilate 

With the kettle. 
M7 



148 MORNING. 

Like a sailor down the mast, 
For the dining room at last 
I will hurry just as fast 

As I 'm able; 
And my joy will be complete, 
When I land in visions sweet. 
So to speak, upon my feet 
At the table. 



HOLLYHOCKS. 

[CALVERLY.] 

In the garden's fragrant way, 
Through the drowsy Summer day 
Which the robin's merry lay 

Ripples through, 
They adorn the flower-bed 
With their blooms, which, be it said. 
Glow in tones of dainty red. 

White and blue. 

Oft the booming bumble-bee 
With his customary glee 
On the noonday's golden sea 

Gayly rocks. 
And, according to his whim. 
Lights serenely, or with vim, 
On the petals of the prim 

Hollyhocks. 

149 



150 HOLLYHOCKS. 

In the sun they gayly nod, 
While their shadows on the sod 
Dance, as if with music shod, 

Zephyr-blown. 
For, of course, they cannot hear 
In their joy, the locust near 
Rattling madly on his queer 

Xylophone. 

In their vanity supreme, 

While in gems of dew they gleam, 

They perchance unto this dream 

Fondly cling: 
That they 're fairer than the white 
Roses climbing with delight 
In the day and in the night 

Up a string. 

So its natural that they 
Should be happy all the day — 
Sweet Sultanas blithe and gay. 

Rare and tall. 
Soon they '11 flutter here and there 
To the realm of otherwhere, 
From the garden o'er the fair 

Garden wall. 



THE FRUIT PEDDLER. 

[CALVERLY.] 

He is from all care a fleet 

Fugitive, 
Who for any throne his seat 

Would n't give. 
In the rattle of the cable, 
There he smiles as at the table, 
Selling peaches to enable 

Him to live. 

In the weather, cool or hot, 

Wet or dry. 
How he from the apricot 

Flicks the fly. 
While he eloquently screeches 
All the virtues of the peaches 
Which he fervently beseeches 

You to buy. 

151 



152 THE FRUIT PEDDLER. 

Oh, a song of Tusca-nee, 

Oft he chants 
In enthusiastic glee, 

Then he rants. 
And his blood begins to tingle, 
While he grabs at his surcingle, 
For suspenders never mingle 

With his "pants." 

Oh, he smokes his cigarette 

In the hum 
Of the bustle, and no fret 

Seems to come 
O'er his soul with rapture seething, 
While a smile his face is wreathing. 
And to polish it he 's breathing 

On the plum. 

Now he 's vision-thrilled, I know, 

Through and through, 
From his ear-rings to the toe 

Of his shoe. 
So I '11 leave him grim and greasy, 
To his dreams so light and breezy, 
Nor disturb him with an easy 

Howdy-do! 



TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER, 

[CALVERLY.] 

Patiently and hard thou ploddest, 
Through the long and sultry day, 

With thy stock-in-trade so modest 
Resting on a humble tray. 

On the corner calm thou standest, 
In the shower-driven mud, 

Casting smiles the sweetest, blandest, 
On the two-cent collar stud. 

There thou art, in clothing shoddy, 
All thy bosom full of song, 

With thy salver to thy body 

Fastened with a leathern thong. 

When the weary cit thou sightest. 

Seeking his abode of rest. 
Then thou bowest, with politest 

Invitations to invest. 
153 



154 TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER. 

E'er thine oculars out-twinkle 

All thy meretricious gems, 
E'en when water wagons sprinkle 

Thy misshapen trousered stems. 

E'er thou seemest bright and happy 

As the orioles that wing 
Swiftly round the maple sappy 

In the moving days of Spring. 

Often have I seen thee standing 
With a rapture wildly strange, 

Selling horse-shoe pins, and handing 
Customers the proper change. 

I have seen warm visions wreathing 
Round that countenance of thine, 

While upon thy trinkets breathing 
To excite a selling shine. 

I have seen thee many, many 

Moments pause, and, thoughtful scan 
All the fleeting show, like any 

Gentlemanly clergyman. 



TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER. 155 

When at night thou softly foldest 
Up thine enterprise and cares — 

Then thou flyest in thy boldest 
Style up seven flights of stairs. 

Where, serenely in thy rocker, 
Soon thou'rt rocking to and fro, 

Reading Tennyson and Locker — 
Dreaming of the long ago; 

When the days were bright and sunny. 
And thy cheek was like a rose, 

And financial milk and honey 
Drowned life's ordinary woes; 

When with bosom love-elated, 
Down the pathway like a shot, 

Thou didst sally saturated 
With a wealth of bergamot; 

In a manner light and airy, 
In thy kids and coat of blue, 

To the residence of Mary 
Dusenbury Montague. 



156 TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER. 

How she eyed thy whiskers sandy, 
While she touched them with her glove ! 

How thy packages of candy 

In her mouth she deigned to shove! 

How, while Summer winds were blowing 

Flower-petals in the brake, 
Thou wouldst crack thy spinal, rowing 

Her upon the moonlit lake! 

All these facts excite my pity — 
Make me shed a tearful flood — 

Knowing thou must roam the city. 
Vending pin and collar-stud. 

But we all have our romances, 
Pop to damosels with stealth; 

Tell their sires, with coolest glances, 
Falsehoods of our golden wealth. 

And, who knows, thou fate, that carvest 
Rudely all our visions sweet, 

May not we, in lifetime's harvest, 
Stand upon the noisy street? 



TO A VIRTUOUS VENDER. 1 57 

In the day-time hot and dusty. 
In straw hat and ulster drest. 

Yelling in a manner lusty. 
With a tray upon our chest? 

W^hile before us beauty's daughter 

Passes like a shooting star: 
*' Nobby horseshoe pins — a quarter 

Of a dollar — here you are!" 



TO AT CAMPOBELLO. 

[ CALVERLY ] 

When the morning bright and rosy 

Trembles on the purple sea, 
And the marigold and posy 

Wake the buttertiy and bee ; 
When the lilac mist is shifting 

Softly o'er the dimpled swell, 
And the humming bird is drifting 

Round the dainty flower bell, 

When the zephyr glides serenely 

O'er the white-capped ocean bar, 
And the dewdrop on the queenly 

Lily glistens like a star; 
Then, oh pearl of my devotion, 

Little blue-eyed fairy, Rose, 
Prithee do n't forget the lotion 

For the freckles on your nose. 
158 



A DOG DAY JINGLE. 

[ CALVERLY, ] 

Like a leaf before the gale, 
Flies the doggie with a wail — 
Tied upon his shrivelled tail 

Flaps a flagon. 
And the "catcher" runs elate 
At a very lively gait, 
For the doggie will not wait 

For the wagon. 

Down the dusty thoroughfare 
Flies he swiftly as the hare: 
While he circles here and there 

Like the sparrow. 
With this thought the doggie's filled, 
That his bark will soon be stilled, 
And he 's naturally chilled 

To the marrov/. 
159 



l6o A DOG DAY JINGLE. 

Oh, the "catcher" clears the ground, 
While before him lopes the hound 
With the light and airy bound 

He inherits. 
O'er the plaza's stormy bed 
Fly the man and quadruped — 
Each one flying, be it said. 

On his merits. 

Through the alleyway and out. 
While the gamins gayly shout; 
Madly puffs and pants the stout, 

Clumsy fellow. 
Then he throws the airy line 
In a manner fit to shine, 
O'er the head of the canine 

Sere and yellow. 

In the wagon he is met 
By the dogs of every set; 
Scrawny cur and pampered pet 

In a collar. 
Maiden never on him beamed, 
He 's a mongrel unesteemed, 
That will never be redeemed 

For a dollar. 



A DOG DAY JINGLE. l6l 

He 's without a ray of hope — 
They '11 convert him into soap, 
Primed with pansy, heliotrope, 

Rose, or dahlia. 
And he 's also much afraid 
Into buttons he '11 be made 
And the sausage meat purveyed 

In Westphalia. 

Never more he '11 for the rat. 
That is over-fed and fat, 
With his bosom pit-a-pat 

Strike a bee line. 
And he '11 ne'er with joy intense, 
Through the alleyway, and thence 
O'er the tubs and up the fence 

Chase the feline. 

For the cruel hand of fate 

Soon will drown him in the crate — 

Oh, his green eyes will dilate 

While he prances! 
That he '11 terror-stricken be. 
When he finds he cannot flee, 
Will be natural under the 

Circumstances. 



l62 A DOG DAY JINGLE. 

" Now, how long, O Lord, how long? ' 
Is the vagrant doggie's song, 
While he chafes beneath the wrong 

Fate devises. 
And the ''catcher" says, " The fun, 
Little doggie, won't be done 
While old Sirius with the sun 

Sets and rises." 



A DREAM. 

[locker.] 

Now I linger in a dream 

By a lisping woodland stream 

In a dell, 
And again we romp and play 
In the meads in merry May, 

Isabel. 

Roses red your features crest, 
In the east or in the west — 

South or north ; 
There is naught so gay and sweet, 
So enchanting and petite, 
&c. 

As yourself, for it 's as true 
As your loving eyes are blue — 
You 're divine. 
163 



164 A DREAM. 

As when playing on the green 
With the lamb in May, 18 — 
59. 

Oh, you feed the sparrows still, 
As they twitter at the sill 

And the pump; 
And the birds their singing stop 
When you pass them with a hop, 

Skip and jump. 

Blossoms bright your ringlets deck, 
And around your dimpled neck 

White as snow, 
Still a ribbon blows and plays 
As it did in happy days, 

Long ago. 

Now the vision quickly breaks. 
While the rosy zephyr wakes 

Wren and jay; 
And I rise without a sigh. 
And meander down to my 

Dijeuner. 



THE SUN. 

[STEVENSON.] 

It rises over yonder hill, 

A flaming golden ball, 
It creeps across the window sill 

And dances on the wall. 

It gilds the cloudlet's fleecy wing, 

It draws the purple sea, 
Spills blossoms in the lap of Spring 

And wakes the belted bee. 

I see it now its tresses shake 
'Way down the west, and know 

It flies to China-land to make 
The sweet tea-roses blow. 



165 



THE SLEEPY DAY. 

[STEVENSON.] 

The day is growing dull and sleepy, 
While twilight's tide about it flows 

Among the misty hosts of shadows 
It 's nodding to repose. 

I see the white star softly rising 
In sparkling beauty overhead — 

The kind old nursie with the candle 
To light the day to bed. 



z66 



MY SHIP. 

[STEVENSON.] 

My pony is the pleasant ship 

On which I sail care-free, 
Where daisies, like foam-blossoms, dip 

Into the green-grass sea. 

The fresh breeze is my riding whip; 

Grasshoppers big and gray, 
Are flying fish about my ship. 

Whose cargo 's oats and hay. 

A jagged reef that bodes no good 's 

That stone wall over there ; 
Great icebergs are those white dogwoods. 

That sheep 's a polar bear. 

That black rock is a whale asleep 
Above rich coral caves, 
167 



1 68 MY SHIP. 

Those butterflies are gulls that sweep 
Above the clover waves. 

I see my wharf — the shaky stile — 

To hurry there I think ; 
Beside this rill I '11 stop awhile 

To give the ship a drink. 



PRINTED AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS 

BY R. R. DONNELLEY AND SONS CO. 

MDCCCXCVI 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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